A Shadow of the Past
by SHERlockedFangirl
Summary: Sherlock is hurt badly during yet another chase down a dark alley. He ends up unconscious and is taken straight to the nearest hospital, but John doesn't know the real damage until Sherlock wakes up.
1. Chapter 1

John ran. He ran as fast as he could after the tall figure in the long, flowing coat as they ran down the alley in the night. Why was it always an alley? Why was it always night? Could the criminals of London not escape the cliché?

The man they were chasing was a triple murderer. They'd been on his tail for three days until Sherlock had finally tracked him down, which had lead to the chase in the alley. Lestrade had come round to Baker Street in a panic. Apparently the guy was moving quickly and so far his team had been able to pick up nothing. Sherlock had immediately headed straight for John and Mary's flat, picked up his friend – leaving John only a small amount of time to explain the situation to his wife - and they'd arrived at the scene within minutes. Sherlock had explained very little to John as the case progressed, only conveying some thoughts out loud whilst keeping the rest firmly locked away in his mind palace.

"John! We'll lose him!" John sped up, running faster than he ever thought he could. One foot in front of the other. The light from his torch was dancing all over the walls as he struggled to keep it steady in an attempt to keep up with Sherlock. His throat was on fire, he needed air. But they needed to catch the killer more. John continued to race after Sherlock, who was always just a few paces in front. The murderer turned round a corner. John saw Sherlock's coat whip around at the sudden change of direction before…

There was the deafening, sickening sound of an impact of something crashing into something else. John turned the corner. The murderer was running down, away from John, but this is not what caught John's eye. Sherlock was crumpled in a heap on the ground, face down, not moving, not even making a sound.

"Sherlock?" John kneeled next to him, panic rising in his chest. It was not uncommon for one or both of them to be injured in a chase, but this was different. "Sherlock!" The panic seeped into John's voice. He examined Sherlock, checking for a pulse – a wave of relief crashed over him as he felt the faint flutter of a heartbeat - and then searched for the cause of the damage. Impact to the back of the head, forming a large and ugly looking lump with purple bruising beginning to blemish the pale skin, knocked him out like a light. There was a heavy looking pipe just next to Sherlock's lifeless form, so that's what he had heard. The murderer must have hit Sherlock with it as he turned the corner. John looked up, but the murderer was long gone.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulled out his phone and dialled Lestrade's number. It rang for only a few seconds before the man on the other end picked up.

"John? Did you find him?"

"We found him, Greg. But that's not important-"

"Not important? John, the man's killed three people! Where's Sherlock? Put him on the phone and maybe I can talk some sense into-"

"That's what I'm phoning about. Greg, Sherlock's hurt, badly. He's unconscious and needs medical attention from someone who is not shaking quite so badly." It was true. As the severity of the situation dawned on John (a murderer still walking free in London and the world's only consulting detective lying in the middle of an alley), his body began to react. He'd started to shake, and nausea was rising in his stomach. He was no use to anyone like this. "Please Greg, send and ambulance and get your team on it."

"Shit. Right, I'll be right there. Don't move, where are you?"

John gave their location to Lestrade, who promised to get there as soon as possible.

John tried to turn Sherlock over so he could see if there was any more damage. With a great effort, but making attempt to not hurt Sherlock anymore, John turned him over. He opened each eyelid and shone the light from his torch, forcing his hand to steady itself as he continued to shake. Sherlock's pupils were slow to react. Too slow. He'd be concussed when he woke up.

He heard the footsteps before he saw the people. There were four of them. One was Lestrade, who beckoned for the other three – paramedics by the look of their uniform - to move forward. Two of them were carrying a stretcher between them. They placed it on the ground next to Sherlock and lifted him onto it. Sherlock's hand fell over the side and hung limply in the air as they lifted the stretcher up. It made John think of a ragdoll, so lifeless. Sherlock looked vulnerable, and this is what upset John more than anything. Sherlock was a constant source of strength that John relied on. And now, he wasn't even waking up.

"He's still breathing, his heart's still beating, he's still alive." John reminded himself under his breath. The third paramedic, whom John had neglected to pay attention to, wrapped something around John before easing him up from the alley floor and propelling him forward. John's eyes never left Sherlock. He could hear noise coming from the four people around him, but he did not even register what they were saying, his only concern was his best friend.

They arrived at the mouth of the alley within minutes, Sherlock still unconscious in the care of two of the paramedics, John being guided by the third an Lestrade behind them. There were flashing blue lights everywhere, and John felt very disorientated as he struggled to register what was happening around him. More people were poking at him, shining lights into his eyes and talking words at him that John could not hear. There was a ringing in his ears. His chest felt tight as he felt the others surround him, invading any and every space that John considered his personal bubble. It was getting harder to breathe. There were too many people. It was too loud. Where was Sherlock?

Where was Sherlock?

John turned his head and found him, being loaded into the back of an ambulance by yet more paramedics.

"John?" Lestrade's voice broke through the haze that had been clouding John's senses. A firm hand took hold of his upper arm, and John noticed that he had moved forward towards the ambulance, towards Sherlock, without even realising. He turned to face Lestrade, whose face was lined with worry and concern.

"Greg." John breathed. "I need to- I- Please." John's voice broke on the last word as he quietly begged his unspoken request.

Lestrade sighed and then nodded. He released his grip and let John climb into the back of the ambulance. The paramedics tried to stop him, but after John spent a few moments just looking at them with a confused expression, Lestrade stepped in and explained the situation. Finally, John was allowed access into the vehicle. He sat down across from Sherlock, who was now being seen to by two different paramedics. The doors closed and they began to drive away, swaying with the movements of the ambulance as it made its way through the streets of London.

It was only then, in the back of an ambulance, that John looked at what was wrapped around his shoulders. A bright orange blanket covered him, and as John looked back over to Sherlock, the tears began to silently spill over John's cheeks.


	2. Chapter 2

When John Watson was a doctor, he liked hospitals. They were incredibly well equipped with some of the best technology for medical care. They were sterile, preventing the risk of mass spread of disease. They allowed him to work, to do what he did best, to fix people.

When John Watson was a patient, he tolerated hospitals. He saw the necessity of their existence, and appreciated the care given to him when he was admitted. Even if he was bored out of his mind, and it always had the strong smell of cleaning fluids and people which very often gave him a headache, he was grateful that he was there.

When John Watson's best friend was lying unconscious in a hospital, he hated them. The lights were too bright, the machines were too loud, but more importantly, it had been three days, and Sherlock was still unconscious and the doctors who had been assigned to him had not done a thing about it.

John knew in the logical, medical part of his brain that they were doing the right thing. There was no major damage that they could find, however they would be more sure when he woke up and they could perform a more thorough check. The only thing they could do was wait.

The illogical, impatient part of his brain, however, wanted to scream at them. Why was Sherlock not awake yet? They had to do something, anything.

He hadn't left the hospital since they arrived on the night of the chase. John had been checked over and was cleared by the nurses on duty. He's then followed Sherlock as the doctors performed various tests and scans, until they had set him up on one of the empty wards. He'd spent a few minutes trying to regain control of his emotions, but it was difficult when he was in the same room as Sherlock when he was in this state. He'd quickly gone outside for some fresh air and to ring Mary, because John knew she would have been worrying all evening about them. John explained everything to her, voice quivering and breaking as he spoke. She told him she'd be there in ten minutes.

Mary had sat with John on a bench outside as he cried. She had cradled him against her and whispered soothing words of comfort as he buried deeper, clinging on to what he had. He silently thanked God that at least one of them was okay. If a situation ever occurred that put both Sherlock and Mary's life in danger, it would break him. For now, he breathed in the smell of her honey scented shampoo, and allowed her words to wrap around him like a protective barrier.

When they'd returned to Sherlock's bedside, she'd made a big fuss about plumping his pillow and making sure his blanket was tucked around him, and John watched as she smoothed back the ebony curls from Sherlock's forehead and plant a soft kiss there. As she pulled away, she told him to wake up soon. It reminded John of the way his mother used to tuck him in bed at night, and filled John with waves of fresh, raw emotions.

Mary returned to their flat, but John insisted that he stay with Sherlock until he woke up.

There were several visitors for Sherlock the next day. Lestrade was the first to make an appearance. He looked exhausted. There were dark shadows underneath his eyes and his shoulders were more sagged than usual. He was worn. He tried to lighten the mood by cracking a joke about the amount of paperwork he'd have to fill out, but John did not want to laugh. He did not want to do anything. It was only a short visit, and Lestrade left to continue with the case.

Next to visit was Molly Hooper and her fiancé, Tom. She took one look at Sherlock on the bed and burst into tears. John let Tom do the comforting, he did not want to comfort anyone. He wanted Sherlock to wake up. Molly spent her time there holding Sherlock's hand and talking to him. John was unsure about whether Sherlock would be able to hear her, but he appreciated the fact that she was trying. She told Sherlock about some of the interesting bodies she'd seen at work and promised him that he could have his pick when he woke up.

"Please wake up, Sherlock." It was barely louder than a whisper

She was shaking, and her voice was weak, cracking as the tears fell over her cheeks. She let go of his hand to wipe them away, and Tom moved forward to collect her together and leave. Probably for the best, John thought.

Mary had come again. She bought John a fresh set of clothes and kept an eye on Sherlock as John went to get changed. She'd forced John to eat something, telling him that starving himself wasn't going to do any good to anybody. John reminded Mary of how much he loved her. Anyone else would have treated him like a child, like he was something delicate that need to be protected. Mary wasn't like that. She knew what John needed, and made sure that he got it. What John needed now was a rock, something stable to hold onto whilst his life was whirling around him in dizzying circles.

She stayed with John for the rest of the day. At about 4pm, John began to feel confined, so he popped out to get some air into his lungs, and Mary watched over Sherlock again. John returned and before he stepped into the ward, he saw Mary leaned on Sherlock's bed. She'd pulled her chair right up close and her head was laid on her folded arms. Her mouth was moving, talking to him, and John opened the door slightly to hear what she was saying.

"You have to wake up Sherlock. I know you will. I bet your big, clever brain's trying to break out right now, isn't it?" She smiled at him fondly, before her face fell into an expression of – what John could only describe as - heartbrokenness. "Please Sherlock, for John."

John opened the door and walked in, as if he'd never heard what Mary had said, as if he'd never felt the ache in his stomach that they caused. He sat in his chair, and Mary took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. John squeezed back, but he did not feel reassured. Sherlock was still not awake, and John would not feel better until he was.

On the second day, Mycroft had paid his younger brother a visit. Mary had gone to work, but John had phoned in and taken time off under exceptional circumstances. He left the room, to give Mycroft some privacy with Sherlock. John had never seen Mycroft look so worried before. It was almost as if he were human. But John did not acknowledge this. Instead, he let Mycroft spend however long he needed with Sherlock. After about an hour, Mycroft emerged. He still looked worried, but less so than when he had entered the room. For strange reasons unknown to John, seeing Mycroft look less worried actually calmed him. It was probably because if anyone were to find a fault with anything, it would be Mycroft. So, either there really was nothing to worry about, or Mycroft was keeping the truth from John. He settled with the former, not wishing to contemplate what Mycroft cold be keeping from him. John had resumed his place in his chair and continued to watch.

There were no visitors on the third day, apart from Mary, who came in before heading off to work. She's ruffled Sherlock's hair gently and kissed John before leaving. John did not do anything that day. He just existed. He did not talk to Sherlock as the others had done, the idea seemed ridiculous. Besides, what on earth would he say? Sherlock would know that John wanted him to wake up, he didn't need to be told, and anything else John would want to say would be irrelevant.

He just sat there for hours, watching Sherlock. John was just about to drift off to sleep – for he had slept very little over the past days – when he heard the quiet moan and the rustle of movement coming from the direction of the bed.


	3. Chapter 3

No.

The word was screaming in John's head, whirling around, removing every other thought it was possible to possess and replacing it with that one word.

No no no no no no no.

Mary's hand were wrapped tightly around his as they sat in the consultant's office. Her eyes were watering, but she somehow managed to stay strong. Whatever it is that she was doing, she was doing it better than John was. He couldn't bring himself to look at the consultant, and only a few words were registered. He wanted to block them all out, to deny everything that was happening, because it couldn't be happening. Not to him. Not to Sherlock.

All it took was a look from his best friend, just a look to know that something was incredibly wrong. John had coaxed Sherlock awake, and instead of being greeted with murmurs of his name or a hand reaching out, Sherlock's brow had furrowed, eyes narrowing and he brushed John away.

"Sherlock, you're awake, thank God! We were all so worried."

"We?"

"Yes, Greg, Mycroft, Molly and Tom, and Mary and me."

Sherlock continued to stare at him with the same expression. A doctor had walked in, wearing the stereotypical lab-coat, carrying a clip board.

"Ah, Mr Holmes." He pushed a button to the left of Sherlock's bed, which seemed to summon more people as they shuffled into the room. "Awake at last I see."

"Awake?"

The doctor had explained the situation to him briefly. "John hasn't left you're side the entire time Mr Holmes. Indeed, you have a loyal friend."

"John?"

"Yes, I'm here Sherlock." Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes still trying to focus. But when they did, Sherlock still looked weary and cautious of him. And that had been the moment where John had realised. "oh God, please no." He began to shake, and the tears were spilling fast over his cheeks, leaving hot, salty trails down his face. He had clasped his hands together, as if in prayer and pressed his forehead against them with as much force as he could manage, trying desperately to cling onto his sanity. He had begun to rock backwards and forwards in his chair, crying out, "no, please, no," over and over again as he did. He was removed by one of the nurses and placed in a separate room whilst the other doctors had attended to Sherlock.

When he was in that room, he lost all sense of self control. He had shouted, thrown things (luckily the nurse had the good sense to not but him in a room with any heavy or expensive equipment) and finally, his had just cried. His knees gave way and John had found himself knelt down in the middle of the room as his sobs echoes around him.

He didn't know how long he was there, but after some time had passed, John felt arms around him, pulling him in. He smelled the honey shampoo before he saw Mary's face, and allowed her to envelope him in her arms, as for the second time in three days, John completely let go of any self-restraint he had managed to hold onto.

Mary refused to leave John's side, which is how they ended up in the consultant's office. A few words floated around John's mind, a mixture of his own and the consultant's

_Head trauma. Post-traumatic. Retrograde amnesia. Temporary? Possibly. Hopefully. Treatment. Therapy. Memory recall. John. John?_

"John?" He turned to see Mary looking patiently at him. "John, did you hear any of that, sweetie?" John shook his head, he did not have the energy or motivation to open his mouth and create words.

"Mr Watson."

"Doctor." John spat out. Mary squeezed his hands again.

"Doctor Watson," the consultant corrected himself, "we'll need to keep Sherlock in for a few more days, possibly only the one. We need to run more tests and scans to make sure there is no permanent brain damage and give Sherlock a basic test of memory, just to see what exactly is happing. We are unsure of where his memory ends but-"

"It will be more than four years. I've known him for just over four years, and he has no recollection of who I am." John did not remember crying again, but he felt Mary wipe away the tears with the cushion of her thumb, stoking along his cheekbones. Her own tears had spilled over, but John could not bring himself to wipe them away. He allowed himself to be entirely selfish for a few moments, before his mind turned back to the situation at hand.

"Will he ever be able to? Remember us that is," John reclaimed Mary's hand, looking back at the consultant. John was of course, a fully competent doctor, but he'd rather hear it from someone else than just rely on his own knowledge in this case.

"Very possibly. Sherlock displays the signs of suffering from post-traumatic, retrograde amnesia. Sherlock may lose knowledge of who people are – as you are already aware of." He shot the couple a sympathetic look before continuing. "He may be more likely to remember general knowledge about things rather than the specifics and older memories will be easier for him to recall rather than more recent ones. He'll remember his childhood, but the more recent years will be blurry, possibly even completely gone. This is usual for the average person suffering with-"

"Shut up."

Both the consultant and Mary stared at John, who's eyes were closed, jaw clenched, fists curled up tightly on his knees.

"Sherlock Holmes is not average." His voice quivered, and he was struggling to keep a hold of his temper.

"I didn't mean to suggest-"

"No. Listen to me." His eyes flew open and he stared at the consultant, leaning towards him slightly. "Sherlock Holmes is the most brilliant and clever man I have ever met. His brain does not work like yours or mine. He has ways of storing things, filing them away and he never forgets them unless he deletes them. And his brain will never accidently delete anything unless Sherlock tells it to. All his memories are in there, trapped. We just need to help them get out and I will do that if it kills me because Sherlock Holmes is my best friend and he is the least average person to have ever existed."

The consultant looked quite panicked, and John only returned to his chair when he felt Mary's hand on his shoulder, guiding him down. Mary was in control, providing the stability John needed as his world came crashing down around him.

"What happens when Sherlock's discharged?" Mary took control yet again, asking the right questions and not loosing her temper.

"He'll need comfort, stability and regular stimulation. Does he have a permanent address?"

"Yes," replied John. "Baker Street. Don't worry about stimulation there, he'll have plenty."

"He'll also need 24 hour supervision. Does anyone share this address with him?"

"Perhaps Mrs Hudson could," Mary began, but John cut her off befor she could finish.

"Yes." Mary looked at him, confused. John should have probably discussed this with her first, but now was not the time for discussion. "I do." And in that moment, it was decided. John was returning to 221B Baker Street.

"Well then Doctor Watson, you'll need to watch over him at all times. Once we determine what exactly is wrong with Mr Holmes, we'll fill you in and provide you with everything necessary to ensure his recovery." He got up from behind his desk, a signal for John and Mary to leave, he had other patients to attend to. Before they left, Mary extended her hand and thanked the consultant for his time. John too extended his hand. As the consultant shook it, he looked at John, keeping eye contact before saying, "I'm sorry, truly I am. It's always awful when this happens, and you both obviously care about this man a great deal."

John did not want to hear words of sympathy. He wanted to see Sherlock, so he turned and walked out of the room without another word.


	4. Chapter 4

The argument had been inevitable. John was expecting it the moment they walked out of the consultant's office. But of course, Mary had waited until they were back at home.

She'd shouted, she said some things that she regretted, mostly about John always prioritising Sherlock before his own wife, resulting in her completely breaking down into sobs. The tears didn't seem to ever stop. But John understood. She felt like he was abandoning her, choosing Sherlock over her, always Sherlock. And part of him knew that she was right. Mary was always right. Not in the same way as Sherlock, but she was always right, right about John. She knew how their relationship worked, and she knew that John would not rest until Sherlock was better, even if that meant leaving her behind yet again.

He had tried his best to comfort her. He held her close, just as she had done, rubbing small circles into her back, not caring that she was leaving black marks from her tears on the shoulder of his jumper. He repeatedly reminded her that it was only temporary, just until Sherlock recovered – if he ever did. He told her that he loved her with every cell in his body, and that was not going to change no matter what was happening in John's life, or however many miles separated them. He promised to tell her everyday just how much he loved her, and thanked her for putting his life back together after the incident involving Moriarty, St Bart's rooftop and Sherlock.

Mary had eventually clamed down and together they packed a suitcase full of John's clothing, ready for his departure to Baker Street the next day. John didn't realize how tired he actually was until he flopped down onto their sofa. His whole body ached with exhaustion and his eyelids felt heavy and he was struggling to keep them open. He could not pinpoint the exact moment when he allowed himself to give in and let sleep take him, nor could he figure out how long he had been asleep for.

John woke up to the smell of something, toast. He woke up with one side of his face pressed against a cushion that someone had obviously moved under his head. He was laid across the sofa, still fully dressed, apart form his shoes which had been removed and were lying next to the sofa, and he was covered with a fluffy blanket. Typical of Mary Watson. Even after they had rowed and even though she was still obviously still making sure John was okay, making sure he had everything he needed. John had not spent the night on the sofa because Mary was angry at him. He had spent the night on the sofa because Mary knew how tired he was and that he needed the rest. She made him comfortable, but made no effort to move him as he rested peacefully in their front room.

As John realized this, he became overwhelmed by how much he loved this woman, and how much she obviously loved him. He moved off the sofa and was lead to the kitchen by the smell of toast. Mary was stood at the counter, spreading generous amounts of John's favourite jam on the fresh toast. She was faced away from him and did not see him come in. Her hair was ruffled, and her cheeks were slightly flushed. She was dressed in her much loved pink dressing gown. To John, she had never looked more beautiful.

He moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, resting his forehead against her shoulder. She let out a little gasp of surprise, but soon relaxed once she realized what was happening. She laid down the toast and turned around, still held tightly by John's strong arms. Her own arms looped gracefully around his neck and John just stared into her eyes. He truly had been blessed with the most perfect woman in the world. He did not deserve her one tiny bit.

Mary seemed to sense this, and she leaned in and kissed John deeply. As they broke apart, John pulled her in tightly, wanting to be close to her, to just be with her.

"I'm sorry." He breathed into her ear.

"I know," she whispered back, "I'm sorry too."

"What for? You did nothing wrong, you behaved like any rational human being would. I'm the one who's leaving temporarily, not you. I'm the one who's going off the rails, not you. You're the one who still takes care of me despite all of this." He pulled back slightly to see her face.

"That's because I love you, you daft sod!" She laughed lightly. John noticed how her smile seemed to light up her whole face. He had always love that about her.

"And I love you. I love you so much Mary."

"Glad to know that you didn't marry me for no reason. I know why you have to go John. Sherlock needs you more than I do, and I know you'll help him. And when he's better, you can come home and I can have you all to myself again. Well… mostly to myself." She kissed the tip of his nose and shot him a cheeky wink before returning to her task of making breakfast. John let her. He could not put into words just how amazing this woman was.

They sat opposite each other at the dining table, sharing fond looks and reaching over to join hands as they ate their toast. There was a mutual understanding between them. John showered and dressed quickly, as there was a taxi picking him up at 11am to take him to Baker Street. He picked up his bag, which until then had been poised in the hallway, beckoning to John to get on with the task at hand.

John was going to go to 221B, and with the help of Mrs Hudson and Mycroft – who had volunteered his services – to prepare the flat for Sherlock's return. Sherlock was still being kept in hospital. According to Mycroft, Sherlock had been too busy insulting all of the staff - including the specialist psychologist who had been bought in to check his mental condition – that none of the test had been carried out. Typical. Sherlock always was a stubborn git, and amnesia clearly hadn't changed a thing.

Except it had, because John Watson was now only a stranger to the man he considered his best friend.

Then, he would stay with Sherlock until he had recovered enough to manage on his own. John had tried to convince himself that he was doing this for Sherlock's benefit – Mrs Hudson would never have been able to take care of him fully. But a small, truthful voice in his head kept reminding him of why he was really doing it. Of course he wanted to help Sherlock, but anyone could have done it, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly. But John wanted to do it, because he thought that if it was him taking care of Sherlock, that maybe, he might be able to remember his faithful blogger. John knew he was clutching at straws, but he was a desperate man. It was eating at him, killing him slowly from the inside, and that's why John was doing this.

There was the sound of a car pulling up, and John saw the shape of a London taxi out of the window. Sherlock would have approved, London taxi's being his preferred method of transport. Mary held open the door for him. He wrapped his arms around her again and kissed her. She made him promise to at least text her when he got there, and waved him off as the taxi began to move away. He sighed and pulled out his phone. He typed out a message and sent it.

_Miss you already – JW x_

It made him sound like a love-sick teenager and he regretted it almost immediately. But to his surprise, seconds later, his text alert went off.

_You just read my mind, Dr Watson. I love you – Mary xx_

John smiled. And with that simple message, John felt like he had a little more strength as he headed back to his old flat to attempt what seemed like an impossible task.


	5. Chapter 5

Nothing much had changed since he's moved out of 221B Baker Street. Everything was almost exactly the same as when he'd moved out, with the addition of a bit more mess, increased amount of equipment for more experiments, and a slightly stronger smell of chemicals and gunpowder. Sherlock had not moved anything of John's, but the place had been noticeably tidied, or at least an effort had been made. Why couldn't Sherlock have done this when John had still been living here? What seemed like wasted arguments finally had the affect John had intended, even if it was slightly later than expected.

John had texted Mary as soon as he'd jumped out of the taxi. He'd walked up the familiar steps to the black front door with the brass lettering. He had traced his fingers over the numbers, before finally taking the spare key that he'd kept when he moved, and letting himself in. Mrs Hudson, the dear, sweet, kindly old woman had been waiting for him to arrive. They had shared a quick, tear-filled hug – mainly from Mrs Hudson, John had done his crying and now he needed to at least appear strong for the people around him.

Mrs Hudson opened the curtains, which were shut when they arrived. John watched the dust dance in the ray of sunlight that shone through the window. Knowing Sherlock, those windows probably hadn't been opened in at least a week. Mrs Hudson continued to pad around the room, clearing up empty mugs or used plates and depositing them in the sink. Sherlock's environment needed to be comfortable for his return, and mess was certainly the opposite. Mrs Hudson busied herself in the kitchen, donning the washing up gloves and filling the sink with hot, soapy water to tackle the enormous pile of dishes that had accumalated there.

Mycroft had immediately moved into in Sherlock's bedroom, making sure everything was to an adequate standard. John stood in the middle of the flat. He felt useless, alien, like he was invading an unknown territory. But that was ridiculous. 221B had always been home. Mycroft cleared his throat behind him, and John turned to look at the eldest Holmes brother – the only one with any memory of who he was.

"John, remember that I will try as much as possible to fill Sherlock in about the past few years of his life, but it will not make it any less difficult for you." Mycroft looked sympathetically at the army doctor. This was the plan. Mycroft would help at Baker Street, and then collect his brother from the hospital, explaining the situation as best he could to Sherlock, and hoping that he didn't kick up too much fuss over an apparent stranger keeping an eye on him. Mycroft had promised to stress the fact that John was not a stranger, and had been Sherlock's friend before the fall. After that, he would leave John and Sherlock in Bakere Street and watch how events unfurled, intervening only when necessary. "I would offer to take care of Sherlock myself but-"

"You're too busy being the British government to help your only brother who can't remember his old flat mate, which really isn't a concern of yours anyway," John snapped, finally reaching breaking point, "yeah, I gathered." John did not mean to sound so resentful or harsh, but something about being back in Baker Street just pushed John over the edge. Maybe it was that he had to face up to the reality and enormity of the task ahead of him. He felt the pressure of a strong hand on his shoulder, and it took John a minute to register that the hand belonged to Mycroft. John was so unused to signs of affection from the Holmes brothers that he was suitably shocked and touched at the gesture. It was as if Mycroft was planting him on the ground in preparation. John would have to be Sherlock's anchor as he readjusted to the world.

"John, I know this is difficult for you, but Sherlock needs you. He will remember, I am sure, soon enough. I am not often wrong, John. But it will take time, and your support is all you can give him. He needs you here."

John reflected on his first encounters with Mycroft. Mycroft had not seemed overly enthusiastic about John's presence in Sherlock's life, so why the change?

"Why, Mycroft? You weren't keen on me being here when I first moved in, so why am I suddenly needed so badly? Why not just let Sherlock get on with his life without me? It wouldn't have made any difference."

Mycroft stared at him with such an intensity that it almost made John feel uncomfortable. Almost – the man had lived with Sherlock for God's sake.

"John, when I first met you, I said that you would be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. As I said, I am not often wrong. You were undoubtedly the best thing that ever happened to Sherlock Holmes. You didn't see him before he met you. He was a mess. You just limped into his life – nothing special – and picked it up and turned it around. I envied you John."

"_Me_? You envied _me_?"

"Doctor Watson, Sherlock and I are similar in the respect that we both detest repetition. It is a waste of time and I am sure you heard me the first time." He rolled his eyes at John. "Yes, I envied you. You changed Sherlock for the better, something I had been striving to achieve for years and yet you seemed to accomplish it within a week short weeks, possibly even days. You made him happy, you were the only one who ever could and probably ever will."

John didn't move, and was sure that even if he wanted to, he wouldn't have been able. Mycroft's word seemed to have frozen him where he stood, just staring. Mycroft let out a rather loud, irritated sigh. "Shock is not becoming of you Doctor Watson, and I'd seriously suggest closing your mouth before you choke on the amount of flies you will inevitably catch if you continue to do so." And with that, Mycroft dropped his hand back to his side, giving John a chance to collect himself and reflect on what had just been said to him.

Mycroft would have known Sherlock better than anyone before John had been introduced into his life. He would have known what made the Consulting Detective happy, which made John shudder, because it had been something highly illegal, but also incredibly dangerous.

In fact, one of the main reasons John was here was to make sure Sherlock didn't relapse, because in his mind, he wasn't, he was just picking up where he left off. Although Sherlock had mentioned none of this to the doctors examining him, they had determined that Sherlock couldn't remember the past five years, and five years ago, Sherlock had been in a dark place in the confines of his brilliant mind. As a doctor, he knew all about addictions and the marks they leave behind on the lives of the addict, and the people around them, he was prepared for any circumstance. As a friend, it terrified John to even consider that Sherlock would fall so easily back into addiction's unyielding grip.

"John, we are prepared for every possibility," commented Mycroft, who seemed to be reading John's thoughts. "The flat has been entirely searched by my own team, nothing has been found. We have also paid off all known dealers in the area to make sure that Sherlock does not get his hands on anything stronger than the painkillers prescribed to him by the hospital, which we will rely on you to issue to him in the recommended dosage." John turned his head towards the floor, breathing in deeply. The amount of trust that everyone was placing in him was touching, yes – but also incredibly daunting.

"What if I can't do anything Mycroft? What if I can't help him?"

"John, you underestimate your abilities both as a doctor and as Sherlock's friend. Believe in me when I say that you are the only one who could do anything for Sherlock now." And with that, Mycroft left the flat to collect the rightful occupant of 221B.


	6. Chapter 6

**Apologies for the delay in updating! The response I have received for this story has been overwhelming, thank you so much! I just hope I can make this story live up to your expectations and that you aren't disappointed! Sorry in advance if you are! - SHERlockedFangirl x**

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The man walking through the doors was not Sherlock Holmes. The man walking through the door was not his best friend. The man walking through the door was nothing more than a shadow of what he used to be, a whisper of memories long forgotten. Just a hollow shell of the rich, enigmatic and human man John had come to know. Physically, he was still the same – alert and intense. He still held his head high, eyes narrowed. He walked the same way he always had, and the curls on his head bounced around just as they had before. John watched from his armchair as Sherlock gazed around the flat as he stood in the doorway, taking in all the new information into his mind palace, and storing it for later analysis. After only a few moments of hesitation, Sherlock strode into the flat and sat down in his armchair. He moved his hands across the smooth, black leather, as if this was a source of comfort to him, as a small child would rub silk against their skin in a time of distress.

Mycroft entered just as Sherlock sat. The three men engaged in an awkward silence. It pained John to feel this way, when such easy conversation had always flowed without effort in the four wall of 221B. Now there was an unpleasant tension where there should have been warmth and laughter.

"Sherlock, this is Doctor Watson." Mycroft gestured to John. There was no need. Sherlock's gaze had rested on John as soon as he'd settled himself into his chair. His eyes of an indescribable colour had locked on John and had not moved throughout the period of silence. John had seen this look before, the one that made you feel like Sherlock was cutting you open, dissecting and examining you right to your very core. John did not feel uncomfortable under Sherlock's intense stare, with his elbows on his knees and his fingers steepled under his chin, just like he used to. At least that hadn't changed. There was still something left of the world's only consulting detective. This thought alone bought the ghost of a smile to John's face. It was a pleasant change from the solemn, mournful expression that John had wearing over the past few days.

"I am perfectly aware of who he is Mycroft, you informed me about him on our way here. Army Doctor who fought in Afghanistan, but was invalided home after he was shot in the left shoulder, causing a psychosomatic limp and he had to walk with a cane. Has an alcoholic sister. He has a blog on which he writes the goings on of our 'adventures' as you so aptly called them. Did I forget anything, brother dear?" Sherlock's deep baritone voice seemed to reverberate around the entire flat. Oh, how John had missed it. He'd missed the way Sherlock emphasized certain words, how his voice seemed to just ooze sarcasm and sass, especially when the words were directed at his brother, and especially when he said the word 'forget'. But most of all, John had missed the way the words seemed to drip from Sherlock's mouth slowly, as if they were made of syrup or honey. Another smile flickered across John's face.

"Something amusing Doctor Watson?" Sherlock's tone was accusing, challenging, but John just kept smiling.

"Just remembering something." John looked away, unable to hold Sherlock's gaze whilst he was smiling like this.

"How pleasant it must be to be able to remember." The words were spat, with such venom that John stopped smiling and the hair on the back of his neck stood up. The stare that Sherlock was giving him now was not analytical. It was cold, harsh, and full of contempt and loathing. "How wonderful it must be for you to be able to remember exactly what happened to you last week, or last year, or during the past five years." Sherlock stood in one fluid movement and began to pace up and down the flat. His eyes were searing with a kind of fury that John had only ever seen once, sat by a fireplace in an inn on Dartmoor, after Sherlock's first encounter with the hound. "How extraordinary it must feel to not have had five years pass without you remembering. How special you must feel to be able to remember who I am when I don't even know you. How terribly amusing."

John could do nothing but stare at Sherlock, who now looked so agitated that John feared for his safety. Danger. A quick glance at Mycroft told John that the same thought had crossed his mind

"Sherlock, sit down." This was not a request or suggestion from Mycroft. It was a demand. Sherlock noted the tone of voice and immediately sat back into his seat. It seemed that despite the loss of 5 years from Sherlock's mind, he still considered Mycroft to be a voice of reason, and was reasonably happy to comply. Well, as happy as Sherlock could be obeying commands from his older brother. He resumed his staring.

"Why are you here Doctor Watson?" Sherlock's voice was calmer now, questioning.

"What do you mean?" John wanted to know exactly what Sherlock wanted to hear. Perhaps his sparked curiosity about John could force his mind to remember all those clever deductions the consulting detective ever made about the army doctor.

"You're a married man, happily married. You wear a wedding ring that is kept in good condition," Sherlock began. John's pulse quickened and he leant forward, eager to listen to Sherlock. "That the-"

"State of my marriage, right there," John finished, grinning as he remembered their first case together. Sherlock looked at him, confused but also surprised. John looked down at his left hand and twisted the ring off his finger for closer inspection. Sherlock held out his hand, and John immediately handed it to him, and Sherlock proceeded to examine the ring, twisting and turning it in his long, slender fingers. The trust was there, and Sherlock could see that, he just didn't understand why John trusted him so wholly. For now, John was content to give him an answer to the questioning looks. "On our first case together, you deduced that the deceased woman was a serial adulterer from the state of her wedding ring. All her other jewelry was clean, but her wedding ring was dirty, except on the inside. The only cleaning it got was when she worked it off her finger, and that's a direct quote from you by the way." John shot Sherlock a grin, pleased with himself for remembering, and hoping that the glimmer of a memory was somewhere within the foggy, blurry confines of Sherlock's mind palace.

There was a stunned silence. Sherlock's full attention was now turned towards John, still holding the ring at his eye level. "I said that?"

"Yes, you deduced it. It was one of the first deductions I ever saw you make."

"And you… uh… remembered all that?" Sherlock blinked several times as he tried to get the words out of his mouth.

"Yes, of course I do. It was amazing, it was quite extraordinary." Sherlock's eyes closed at the words, as if they were soothing to him.

"Amazing?" he breathed, and John could see his eyes moving under their lids, and knew that Sherlock was in his mind palace, trying desperately to seek out the memory of this encounter. Clearly he could find none, because moments later, his eyes snapped open and he deposited the ring back in John's hands. "Yes, well. That's not what people usually say." And with that, he swept out of his chair and towards his bedroom. The door slammed behind him, separating Sherlock from the rest of the world. John and Mycroft made no attempt to follow him. Sherlock need the space and time to himself. His mind palace would be in a state of disarray, and despite how Sherlock treated things on the outside, it distressed him greatly when the inside of his head was untidy and unorganised. Sherlock relied on the organisation of his thoughts far more than anyone knew – anyone other than John and Mycroft. So they left him alone.

John's eyes fell upon the armchair opposite him. It was strange to think that the man who was just sat here could be the same man that he had shared so many good memories with in this room, like the stag night, the many clients they'd listened to, the countless takeaways. The list was endless.

John was so engrossed in his memories of this room, of these very chairs, that he did not notice that Mycroft had moved into his field of vision until he had cleared his throat. He looked up at the man that was supposedly the British government, who was looking back at him with something that closely resembled pity. But that was ludicrous. Mycroft Holmes did not do pity.

"Well, I best be off. You seem to have made a promising start, but you know what they say, the road to recovery is a long and difficult one." John tried not to think about the double meaning, focusing entirely on the recovery of Sherlock's memory, and not Sherlock's possible relapse. John didn't move as Mycroft walked out of the flat. He remained in his armchair, thinking. He could hear Sherlock moving around his room, possibly looking for something. John did not know, nor did he make any attempt to find out.

It was all very well trying to prepare himself for what was ahead. But the truth of the matter was, that interaction with Sherlock was completely and utterly heartbreaking for John, who was so used to Sherlock being able to recall every little fact about him that having the tables turned felt oddly disorientating. He remembered the look in Sherlock's eye after he struggled to find a memory of John. Sherlock had looked devastated – for there was no other word that John could have used. And this is what broke John. Sitting in silence and reflecting, and letting his heart get broken.


	7. Chapter 7

There is a word to describe how John and Sherlock lived in those first few days in the flat. Existing. They did not talk, or eat together, or sit in the same room. In fact, John did not see Sherlock for four days after he returned home, choosing to barricade himself in his bedroom rather than let John try and help him recover. John let Sherlock take his time. He knew that being around new and unknown people for extended periods of time could put Sherlock in a bad mood, but on top of all that, Sherlock was trying to cope with something that John hoped he would never have to, or Mary, or Mycroft, - in fact, anyone he knew. But it was Sherlock, the mad, brilliant, infuriating, captivating man who was struggling against the fog inside his own brain. John would have assumed that Sherlock was scared, but Sherlock Holmes did not do scared.

It was a Tuesday when Sherlock purposefully sat down in his armchair in front of John. He didn't know why it was important that it was a Tuesday, Sherlock would have written off the detail as dull and useless. John didn't acknowledge his presence, choosing instead to keep reading his book. He only looked up when the man opposite cleared his throat, signaling to John that his attention was required elsewhere. John closed his book and set it on the small side table that was more often beside his chair than Sherlock's. John looked up towards his friend. A small gasp escaped his lips as he took in the whole of Sherlock's figure. He was thinner, alarmingly so. Damn, why had John not forced him to eat something? The circles under his eyes were the darkest John had ever seen on a person, making his eyes look sunken. This, combined with the extreme weight loss and Sherlock's already tall, slim figure gave the impression of a skeleton, and this terrified John.

"Jesus, Sherlock!" He reached out and grabbed the taller man's shoulders, holding him in place as he scanned the rest of him, making sure that there was nothing else wrong. Sherlock's eyes never left John's face, and only after their eyes locked for a few seconds, did John let go of Sherlock. He realised that this might have made Sherlock uncomfortable. "God, I'm sorry! I'll just…" he trailed off. Sherlock continued to watch John as he clumsily settled himself back into his armchair.

"Does it worry you?"

"I'm a doctor, of course it worries me. It's not healthy."

"A lot of things I do aren't healthy Doctor Watson, so why should this be of any concern?"

"Because it is."

"That's not a valid answer."

"I don't care whether it's valid or not. It's not healthy and therefore it's my concern." John tried to maintain the eye contact, but after what just happened, he found the top left-hand corner of the flat just above Sherlock's head a lot more interesting. The silence between them resumed, although John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, not ever moving from him.

"Do you do that often?"

"Do what?" asked John, still purposefully not looking at Sherlock. Had that mark always been on the ceiling?

"Invade space that one would consider their 'personal bubble'." Sherlock made quotation marks in the air as John looked back at him.

"You're one to talk." John let out a rush of air that could have been a laugh, but wasn't quite. His lips quirked into a smile, but instantly fell back into the sad expression that had been the default since he returned to Baker Street. "You never held any regard for personal space during the while time I knew you." Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his face furrowed into that familiar frown that triggered a thousand different memories in John's mind. It pained John to the point where he believed to to be physical pain, that Sherlock could not share this with him. Sherlock's head turned slightly to the side, so he was now eying John from the corner of his eyes as he had done with so many previous clients

"Knew me?" His tone was cutting, icy. "Am I dead? Do you no longer remember me? I was under the impression that I was the one suffering from post-traumatic amnesia. So, tell me Doctor Watson, how can it be that you 'knew me'?"

John let the seconds drag out, knowing that the answer would hurt.

"Because you're not the same Sherlock Holmes that I know. You're still a brilliant, arrogant, snobbish know-it-all, but you're not the man who was my best friend." His voice cracked, and he looked towards the floor, desperately trying to keep the tears from falling as the brutal honesty of his words settled in. It had been one thing to think them, but admitting them out loud set it in stone. This was not the same Sherlock Holmes, and John felt that no matter how hard he tried, he was never going to fully regain his best friend. However, this did not mean that he was not going to try.

"I was your best… friend?" John looked back up, determined to keep eye contact. The look on Sherlock's face immediately transported John back to the moment when he'd asked Sherlock to be his best man. That had been a shock. Sherlock could literally not wrap his brilliant brain around the fact that he was capable of being anyone's best friend. It felt like too much, but John persisted.

"Yeah, you were. You were the most extraordinary man I've ever met, and also the most human. You called yourself a high-functioning sociopath, but unlike the rest of the world, I could see past that bullshit. You had a heart and you cared for people. You jumped off a building to protect the people you cared for, and then spent two years destroying the network set up by the man who threatened us, and then when you came back…"

John wanted to keep talking, but he found that he could not. His voice was trapped in his throat. Sherlock's eyes were closed again. John knew this was so he could think better. So he could absorb all of the new information into his brain and let it filter. He would then file it away wherever he saw fit in his mind palace. Once again, his fingers were steepled under his chin, in the position John had named: Sherlock's Default. Happy, sad, confused, angry, whatever emotion, Sherlock's fingers would always steeple themselves as they tucked under his chin.

"I've never had friends. Why on earth would I have friends?" He spat the word out as if it tasted sour in his mouth.

"You didn't," Sherlock's head snapped up and his eyes opened, but John didn't meet them, choosing instead to look at his own hands that were sat uselessly in his lap. "You only had the one."

Before Sherlock could make any more cutting remarks, John got out of his chair and up the stairs to his old bedroom. He closed the door behind him, holding onto the handle for a short while before turning around to face the room. He did not remember falling back, or down, but next thing he knew he was slumped against the door, his arms wrapped tightly around his knees as he cried into his lap. It was as if the universe was punishing him for a terrible crime. Sherlock couldn't remember who he was, or any of the time they had spent together, and yet they were sat there, practically quoting their past conversations word for word. His crying turned into sobbing, the tears falling thick and fast and never seeming to stop.

God, he felt like a teenager, he felt pathetic, how much could a man cry in one lifetime? John Watson felt like he was crying for the rest of mankind. He fished his phone out of his pockets and dialed the number of the only person he felt like talking to, because they would not pity him, they would let him cry. They would make everything better, because they always did.

The phone rang for a few moments, before the person on the other end of the line picked up. A silvery voice spoke.

"John?"

John gasped as he tried to control his sobs, enough to speak into the phone, hoping that one simple word would show how much he was breaking, how much he needed them with him, to fix him.

"Mary…"


	8. Chapter 8

John focused on the warmth radiating from the hand he was clutching in the cold of the afternoon. He and Mary were walking around one of London's many parks, hand in hand, not talking, just enjoying each other's company. John honestly did not know what he would do without Mary's constant support. She was the one constant in John's life at the moment, always providing the strength that John needed. She could have come with him to Baker Street, being a nurse she was more than qualified. But John knew that Mary was giving them space. John needed to be the one to help Sherlock, and he wanted to do it alone, and she respected that.

John had not needed to explain to Mary what was happening. The moment she'd heard his voice on the phone, she'd ordered him to stay put until she got there. John had held onto the phone with both hands, as if it were his lifeline. Only a short while later he had heard footsteps running up the stairs and a quiet knock, just above John's right shoulder as he remained leaned against the door. He'd scrambled clumsily to his feet and opened the door with such ferocity that he was surprised that it didn't fly off of it's hinges. His beautiful, strong and perfect wife was waiting on the other side. There was no 'hello', no 'how are you?' There were no words at all, there didn't need to be. Mary was wearing her favourite red coat, her hair pinned back at the sides with jeweled clips that John had bought her as 3 month anniversary present on a whim. He wasn't sure Mary would like them, but she did, immensely so. John appreciated that she was wearing them, he didn't know why, but they'd put a small smile on his face when he saw them nestled in Mary's blonde hair.

She'd reached up and wiped the tears off of John's face, pausing as she rubbed her thumb along his cheekbone, her other hand cupped around the back of his neck, drawing them closer together. John had caught her hand and held it to his face. He smiled weakly down at her, and wrapped his free arm around her waist. He leaned forward until their foreheads were resting against each other. John had closed his eyes and breathed deeply for the first time in days, and allowed himself to forget why they were there in the first place. All that had mattered at that moment, was that John had his wife in his arms. They shared this intimacy for a few moments longer, before Mary laced her fingers through John's and detached themselves from each other. She had lead him downstairs, and John caught a glimpse of Mrs Hudson fussing around Sherlock, who was in his thinking position, sprawled across the sofa, completely unaware of the hurt he'd caused John. He had opened one eye lazily as John and Mary entered the room. He'd looked the couple up and down once, and then closed his eye again, returning any thoughts he'd abandoned to watch John and Mary. Mrs Hudson had sent an apologetic look at the two of them. Mary had gently guided John out of the flat, and as they walked down the stairs into the hall, she'd turned and said her first words to John since she arrived at Baker Street.

"I called in a favour with Mrs Hudson. She's going to watch him for a while so we can take a walk, you need space and fresh air."

John had felt a rush of affection for his wife, who once again had been thinking of him, and only him. They'd walked through the streets of London until they ended up in a park.

As they walked, John took time to take in the scenery around him. He'd never appreciated just how beautiful this small oasis of green was in a jungle full of grey building complexes and concrete monuments. He breathed in the air. It smelled of freshly cut grass, rain and something that could only be described as London. It was refreshing. With every breath John took, he felt like he was cleansing his lungs from whatever poison was infecting 221B Baker Street. They continued walking in silence, until they came across a vacated park bench. The settled themselves on it, letting go of each other's hands as they did. Mary waited for a few moments before turning to her husband.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Her now empty hand reached up to stroke through John's hair and he leaned into the touch. They sat there, shoulder to shoulder, Mary's hands still stroking John's grey-blonde hair.

"This is hard. Much harder than I thought it was going to be." Mary did not offer advice, for there was none to give. Neither did she give John pity, for which he was grateful. He could not stand to have anyone's pity.

"I know, sweetheart, I know."

John stared into the distance, focused on nothing in particular.

"He doesn't even call me John anymore." John choked out the words, ashamed to admit how much this hurt him. Because it did. It had always been Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock, the consulting detective and his blogger. But now, it was Sherlock and Doctor Watson, the consulting detective and the stranger that lived with him – at least in Sherlock's mind. "And he's loosing weight, Mary. Too much, it's scary. He's obviously not sleeping and he hasn't appeared to make any progress with his memory." John sounded like he was breaking, but there were no more tears. Mary rested her hand on his shoulder and pressed her forehead against his temple, eyes closed.

"John, the doctors said it would take time."

"But how long, Mary? Because I don't think I can take anymore!" John too closed his eyes, it allowed him to concentrate, and he could understand why Sherlock did it so much.

"John, listen to me. Sherlock needs you. It's probably a lot harder for him, you know how he works, this will be killing him. All you have to do is offer him help and support. Be his friend, because that what you are and always will be, and one day, he's going to remember that, and I know that he'll appreciate that you didn't abandon him to the care of doctors or even worse-" Mary paused, "his brother." John could not help but laugh out loud. He marveled at the amazing woman sat next to him. She always knew exactly what to say, exactly what to do to make John happier, to make him laugh or smile. How had he gotten so lucky?

He turned to face her, smile still plastered on his face. "Remind me, why did you marry me?" She chuckled.

"Because I love you," she said simply, smiling at him and sending waves of warmth throughout John's body. "Come on, we should get back. There's a genius back in Baker Street who's in need of some decent company." She jumped up from the bench.

"Are you implying that I'm not decent company?

"Yes." She shot John a cheeky wink as she held out both of her hands. John took them and allowed her to pull him up. He wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly. She returned the hug, relaxing into John's embrace. John kissed Mary's head, before pulling away.

"And what makes you think I am not decent company Mrs Watson?" He held out his hand and Mary immediately took it. She shoved him playfully with her shoulder and John kissed her temple. They continued to tease each other for the duration of their walk back to Baker Street, by which time, John was in a considerably better mood.

Mary was good for him. Mary made him happy, deliriously so. Mary made him stronger. But Mary was no miracle worker. Sherlock was still broken, and John wanted desperately to fix him.


	9. Chapter 9

John returned to the flat with Mary to find Sherlock sat at his desk in the living room. A laptop - probably John's – was open in front of him, and he was completely engrossed in whatever he was reading. John did not bother to password protect his laptop anymore, not since moving in with Sherlock, who could always guess them in under a minute. Both he and Mary removed their coats and hung them up on the hooks just behind the door. Sherlock did not turn to look at them, but chose instead to carry on reading whatever it was that was in front of him.

John turned to the kitchen, intent on getting caffeine into his system as soon as possible. "Tea, Sherlock?"

"Mmm." John took that as a yes, and John took three mugs out of the cupboard, put the kettle on and proceeded to wait for it to boil.

Mary, however, moved over and sat down on the sofa, right in Sherlock's eye line if he were to look up from his laptop. And he did, the moment she sat down and tucked her feet up on the sofa with her. John watched Sherlock regard her for a few moments, and then he began to speak.

"Why haven't you been here Mrs Watson?" The deep baritone purr resonated throughout the flat.

"Excuse me, Sherlock?" Her tone was polite and inquisitive. Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise, and yet there was no cutting remark that John had learned to expect. Clearly, Mary knew how to handle Sherlock, even in his current condition. John felt pride swelling inside him as he regarded his wife. He smiled to himself and went back to the kettle, which had just finished boiling, the steam rising in swirling, grey columns around the kitchen.

"You're a nurse, in fact you work at the same surgery as you're husband, Doctor Watson-"

"He has a name Sherlock, and it's John." John's breath hitched as he listened to Mary scold Sherlock on his behalf.

"You and John work at the same surgery."

"Yes we do."

"So, why haven't you been here? You're just as qualified to take care of me as any of the imbeciles at the hospital that put on a coat and call themselves a doctor." Mary laughed. John was very fond of her laugh, and he made a special effort to make her laugh just to hear it.

"Because," Mary paused, and John held his breath, still not facing the tow of them, waiting to hear her reply. "You're John's best friend Sherlock. John wants to see you get better, and he wants to be the one to do it, the only one, because that's what best friends do – they take care of each other." John turned around to look at the both of them. Mary caught his eye briefly, before turning back to Sherlock. There was a long pause, and silence dominated the room as Sherlock turned theses answer over in his mind.

"Would I have done the same for him?" John watched Sherlock, who slowly turned to look him straight in the eyes. It sent a jolt of pain through John, and he had to turn away from his intense stare.

"I think you would. He's your best friend too."

"Was." Sherlock corrected. John could feel the tears burning in his eyes at such a simple word. He continued to attempt to make the tea, although his hands were shaking so much that half the contents of the mugs ended up getting splashed of the kitchen side.

"No," Mary's voice was soft. John turned his head to see what was happening. Mary was no longer on the sofa. Instead, she was no stood in front of Sherlock, one hand on his cheek, her thumb smoothing over his cheekbone. "He still is, Sherlock. And I think he always will be, no matter what happens. You just need to trust him. Your mind is trying to fight back, let John help." She patted his cheek, and moved away.

Sherlock touched his cheek where Mary's hand had just been. But made no other movement, or sound.

John simply marveled at her and Mary walked across the room and into the kitchen. She smiled up at him, and picked up one of the half-cups of tea. She was smiling as she drank it, and the flat once again was consumed by silence, although this time, it was more comfortable. Mary looked at her watch and - noticing the time - drained her cup. She moved into the living room and put her red coat back on again. John reached out, and caught her hand.

"Stay?"

"I can't, sweetheart. I have to be at the surgery tomorrow, and someone has to cover until our best doctor returns." She winked at him, and John couldn't help but smile as he folded his arms around her. After a few moments, Mary pulled back to look up at her husband. "If anything happens, call me, okay?"

"Sure. Thank you for today, I needed it."

"I know you did. I love you."

"I love you too." She kissed him goodbye, the sweetest kiss that John had ever shared with his wife, and she left, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the flat once more.

John ran his hand through his hair, before turning back to his friend, who had returned his attentions to the laptop screen. His eyes were darting back and forth, reading the lines of text at a rate that John had never seen. John collected the other two mugs and deposited one in front f Sherlock, who didn't even flinch. Curiosity got the better of John, and he leaned over Sherlock's shoulder, resting one hand on the back of Sherlock's chair, and one on the desk, to find out what was so interesting that it required Sherlock's fullest attention.

Oh…

'The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson.'

Oh…

It was open on their first case together. 'A Study In Pink', John had called it.

"I could see that Sherlock was going to take one of the pills," Sherlock read aloud. He skipped several sentences. "Which is when someone shot the taxi driver." A few more lines were skipped. "That someone could have the power of life and death over someone else - but I'm glad whoever it was did it, because they undoubtedly saved Sherlock's life. And, frankly, after everything that man had done to those innocent people who got into his car, a quick death like that was better than he deserved."

Sherlock turned to look at John, this eyes scanning his face, deducing. John swallowed, is throat suddenly parched. Hi gulped down some of his tea in an effort to make talking, swallowing and breathing easier.

"It was you wasn't it? You shot the cabbie."

"Yes." John replied truthfully. There was nothing else he could say.

Sherlock turned back to the screen. "I've been reading through your blog, John." John noticed the use of his first name, and made a mental note to thank Mary the next time he saw her – or better yet, buy her something as a thank-you present, preferably with a large price tag, she deserved it. "I've been trying to find some of my lost memories. I found your blog on your laptop and decided to read it, incase it catalyzed the process of regaining my memory."

"And, has it worked?" John tried to keep his voice steady, but was failing miserably.

"No, not exactly."

"Not exactly? How-"

"You John." John stared at his flat mate. He was totally confused. What Sherlock was saying didn't make any sense.

"Me?"

"John, if you really were – are," he corrected himself, "my friend, then you'll know that I cannot stand repetition." Yes, John was fully aware of that. The irony of that was, that Sherlock repeated this reminder at almost every opportunity.

"Sorry." John waited for Sherlock to continue.

"You, you're everywhere. In my mind palace, you're in every room. I see you're face everywhere, and yet I still can't place you. It's infuriating." Sherlock slammed John's laptop shut, and stormed out of the living room in the direction of his bedroom. This was confirmed when John hear the heavy slam of a door just beyond the kitchen. John hadn't moved a muscle, hands still planted on the chair and desk, which was lucky, because he didn't think his legs would have been able to support him at this point.

He focused on breathing. In, and out. In and out.

This could be it, the beginning of Sherlock's memory returning. But he mustn't get his hopes up yet. This was a start – a good start – the best. But baby steps.

Baby steps.


	10. Chapter 10

High-pitched notes, moving fluidly through the flat woke John in the early hours of a Wednesday morning. It was the all too familiar sound of a violin, and there was only one resident in 221B with the skill to play such a delicate instrument.

Turning in his bed, the sound of his hair against the pillow momentarily blocking out the beautiful music, and leaning towards the clock on his bedside cabinet, John saw that it was in fact 3:08am. John flopped back onto his pillow, closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply as he tried to bottle his frustration. This clearly wasn't happening, so he kick his legs out of the bed, and jerkily sung his body around so he ended up in a sitting position on the edge of his bed. It was pitch black, apart from the tiny sliver of light that was slipping through the gap that the slightly open door left.

John had slept with the door open ever since he arrived back at Baker Street, just in case something happened in the middle of the night and John needed to get to Sherlock quickly, although as of yet, this hadn't happened.

John took a few moments, still perched on the edge of his own bed, the sound of Sherlock playing the violin still travelling up the stairs. The air seemed to stir around him at the sound, as if the flat was waking up around him at the sound of the familiar strings, stretching it's walls as it recognised the return of it's detective. John ran his hands through his short, grey-blonde hair – an action that he seemed to be repeating a lot recently. He let out a sigh of resignation and pushed himself off the bed and towards the door.

Fair enough, his friend was suffering, but that did not make it okay for him to wake him up at bloody 3am with his violin playing. He thought that he should probably be delighted that Sherlock was showing signs of normal behavior, but all John could feel towards the situation was irritation. Was it too much for him to get a decent amount of sleep? He made his way down the stairs, his annoyance growing with every step he took towards the music. He reached the bottom of the stairs and turned into the living room, about to give Sherlock a piece of his mind.

But he didn't.

John stopped in his tracks by the sofa as the piece of music that Sherlock was playing finally made it's way through the cloud of irritation in John's mind, and John recognised it.

It was a waltz.

It was _his_ waltz.

It was the waltz that Sherlock had composed for his first dance with Mary.

It was painfully beautiful, just as John remembered it. He closed his eyes and saw Mary, in her beautiful ivory gown, and her smile, such a beautiful smile. He saw the guests, all stood around them as they took their tentative first steps of the waltz. He could see Sherlock, on the stage in his suit, eyes closed, concentrating and letting the music take over him as he played. He could himself together with Mary together, twirling on the dance floor, as Sherlock played his composition for them, such a perfect moment.

John opened his eyes again, and realised too late that they were full of tears. He let the notes wash over him, each one feeling like a knife to the stomach, and yet they gave him hope. Was that possible? How could something give you hope, and yet at the same time cause you so much pain.

The lights were slightly dimmed, as was the custom after 1am in Baker Street – a habit established by Sherlock before John had even moved into the flat. Sherlock was stood with his back to the room by the fireplace, so John was unaware if he knew that John was there. He finished the piece on a long, haunting note, which left a hollow feeling in John's chest. John tried to clear his throat, which had become tight as he wiped away the tears that had now spilled over his cheeks.

"This piece," Sherlock didn't turn around as he address John, nor did he lower his violin, "I don't know it, and yet I hear it, every time I see you and your wife together." He turned around to look at John, who had given up with his attempts to hide his emotions and slowly lowered the violoin until it was at his side, bow in the other hand. "It fills my head, my entire mind palace until it's the only thing I can concentrate on. Why?"

John remained silent, unable to find the courage to speak.

"_Why_?" Sherlock was shaking, John could see the bow in his quivering.

"Because-" John began, his voice breaking. "Because that's- That's the piece you- You wrote that for us, for our wedding." John had to avert his gaze from Sherlock.

"Your wedding? Yes, I was… There was a man… a mayfly…"

John's head snapped back to his friend. He walked quickly over to him, placing one hand on each shoulder, locking his eye with those piercing blu-green eyes. Sherlock flinched at the touch, but he didn't pull away, allowing John to keep a firm grip on him.

"Say that again. Say that to me again, slowly."

Sherlock's eyes closed and his face crewed up in concentration. H took in several deep breaths before he spoke. Clearly this was taking a lot of effort on Sherlock's part, but John didn't let go, he kept his eyes focused on Sherlock's face.

"A mayfly man, he lived for a day, four – no – five girls, attempted murder." Sherlock dropped the bow on the floor and lifter hi hand to his head. His jaw tightened and John heard him suck in a breath through his teeth. John's hands dropped to his sides, and he took a step away from the taller man, he didn't want to crowd him.

"Go on." John encouraged, his pulse had quickened in anticipation, he could hear the beating of his own heart in his ears, which was probably a bad sign but he chose to ignore it.

Sherlock's hand was pressed painfully against his forehead. John moved forward and removed the violin form his grasp before he dropped that too. As soon as his hand was empty, Sherlock moved it to his head, ramming the base of his hands into his eye sockets. His breathing became quicker, and John feared that he was about to begin to hyperventilate. but before John could reach out to sit him down, Sherlock let out a furious groan, that was so full of rage that John took another step back. His eyes snapped back open.

"I can't. I can't remember anything else." He grabbed the closest item to him – one of John's mugs that had been left on the mantelpiece above the fireplace – and threw it across the room. It missed John by inches, smashing into a hundred pieces against the wall to John's right, but John didn't even flinch, he was too focused on what Sherlock had just told him.

His memories were there. They were there, still tucked up in his mind palace, struggling to get out. The waltz had clearly triggered something that had allowed these small pieces of information to infiltrate through the fog, and bloom into Sherlock's mind like the most beautiful flower in existence. Where Sherlock felt rage at being unable to remember anything else, John felt euphoria that something was coming back to him. Granted, none of it had lead to the uncovering of John's identity in Sherlock's mind, but it was something. A very good something.

Returning to the present, John noticed that Sherlock was now sat in his chair, head dropped in his hands, still shaking. John moved to sit opposite him in his own cushioned armchair. If John was capable of processing any train of thought, he would probably have been amused at the role-reversal that had occurred between himself and Sherlock, as the detective was overwhelmed with emotion and John seemed incapable of processing any emotions.

"Why was I there John?" John blinked a few times before being able to focus of Sherlock's face.

"Why- What?"

"Why was I there? Your wedding? I don't ever go to anything like that, so why was I there? Was I tricked, drugged, or just there to solve a murder?" In that moment, Sherlock had never looked so vulnerable.

"You were there," John managed to choke out, the emotion he was feeling threatening to overwhelm him and close of his throat completely, "because you are my best friend and I asked you to be my best man."

John's words were greeted by a stunned silence as the detective let John's word infiltrate his mind and settle there.

"I was your best man?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

John looked at his hands, once again unable to look into the eyes of his best friend. Why did he always press John like this? John wanted to walk away and drop the subject. But he'd agreed to help Sherlock recover, and if that meant answering every question thrown at him, then John planned to do absolutely that.

"Because you are my best friend, and I didn't want anyone else to stand there with me as I got married, because if it had been anyone else, the role of 'best man' would have been completely meaningless. You were the only one I wanted for the job." John's eyes never left his hands, not even after he finished talking.

The silence between them was like none that had ever been before. The tension could have been cut with a knife, and it was tangible in the air around the flat. John was vaguely aware of movement in front of him, but it was another few minutes before he looked up and noticed the absence of his friend. Turning to see that Sherlock's coat and scarf were also missing told John that he had exited the flat.

Knowing that he shouldn't let Sherlock be running around London in this state, especially after days cooped up in the flat, John ran upstairs and quickly changed, before grabbing his own coat and running out of the door, closing it behind him and into the cold, London air. He turned his head each way down the street, before deciding to try going left first. He set off at a brisk pace, keeping his eyes peeled for a mop of ebony curls on top of a blue scarf and thick, black trench-coat.

John could tell that it was going to be a long night.


	11. Chapter 11

_Bloody hell._

It was the only thought rushing through John's panicked brain as he combed the streets of London. It had already been 3 hours and there had still been no sign of Sherlock. He'd promised himself, for the sake of Sherlock's dignity as well as his own, to not get Mycroft involved, but now it was getting ridiculous. It was no longer dark as dawn had begun to break at about 5am, just a sliver of light along the horizon. But now, London's skies were streaked with reds, oranges and pinks, the blue of the daytime beginning to weave it's way through the other colours to gain it's dominance in the sky.

3 hours seemed like an eternity when running around London at 6am.

3 hours was a long time for Sherlock Holmes to get himself into trouble. John didn't like to think about what kinds of trouble, just that trouble was incredibly likely, if not definite.

John reached inside his coat pocket and dialed the number for Mycroft. He swore under his breath as he did so. It pained him to resort to this.

"Ah, Doctor Watson. What do I owe the pleasure of your conversation at this hour?"

"Mycroft, Sherlock's gone. He ran off at about 3 this morning and I've been looking for him ever since. I can't find him Mycroft he could be anywhere with anyone doing anything and all because I didn't think to follow him straight away and he could be in danger and…" His words were all melting together because he was talking so fast. He knew he needed to calm down, but since when was anything to do with Sherlock 'calm'?

"John, calm down. Where did you last see him?"

John began to tell Mycroft exactly what happened, answering every question he was asked in extreme detail. After the interrogation, Mycroft instructed John to return to Baker Street and promised him that Sherlock would be found as soon as possible. John hung up the phone, and felt a great weight lift from his shoulders. He trusted Mycroft, more than he;d ever admit out loud, and despite all that Sherlock said about him, John knew that the two brothers loved each other really, deep down. Very deep down, far below the many, many layers of protective barriers that the Holmes' had put around themselves, creating their cold, calculated exteriors that John was so used to seeing.

He caught a cab back to Baker Street, surprisingly light traffic for London. He made his way up the stairs, listening carefully for any sounds of life. He desperately hoped that Sherlock had just gone out briefly, and had returned to the flat many hours before. But as John opened the door and was greeted by silence, he realized that this was a foolish hope. He deposited his coat on the hook behind the door, sat down in his armchair and waited.

There was no noise in the flat. They used to have a clock, but Sherlock found the ticking distracting and highly irritating. It hadn't taken long for a bullet to be fired straight through it, and that was the end of the clock. Since then, John and Sherlock had always relied on their phones to keep them updated on the time. John's phone was laid on the small side table, which was now at the side of John's armchair. The table had a habit of moving from one side of the room to the other, depending on whoever needed it the most. It was most often on John's side of the room, because he often rested his empty mugs there after a cup of tea, or a book he'd had to abandon mid-sentence when a case came up that required the duo's immediate attention. Looking at where it sat now, John realised that Sherlock hadn't moved it since he'd last lived in Baker Street. His brows furrowed in confusion as he continued to focus his attention on the table, rather than what on Earth Sherlock could be doing

John watched the dust rise and fall in the light of the sun, now shining brilliantly over London and through the curtains of 221B. John mind was hurtled back to when he'd first visited the flat after 2 years of mourning the loss of Sherlock. There had been dust there too, but quite a bit more than there was now. Sherlock never did like it when Mrs Hudson dusted. John chuckled in spite of himself. Sherlock really could be like a petulant child sometimes. He remembered when Mrs Hudson had tried to clean the flat up for the first time after John had moved in. Sherlock had thrown quite a tantrum, and although Sherlock will deny it, John was certain that the younger man had pouted after she took away his skull as punishment for his temper. John immediately felt guilty about remembering when Sherlock could not, and so quickly turned his attention back to the dancing specks of dust floating in the sunlight.

They swirled around the flat in movements that surely must have been choreographed. The way the particles moved around each other, so intricate and delicate, reminded John of how he and Sherlock used to be. They were so in sync, always. John always knew how he needed to be around Sherlock - when his inputs and opinions were appreciated and when they were not, when he needed to ground Sherlock with a hand on his shoulder before his thoughts became too much, or even when Sherlock needed space to think and John left him alone. In return, Sherlock had understood when John needed him to shut up, or when he didn't, he knew exactly what needed saying, he'd known when to keep John close on a case, and had never purposefully walked him into the path of danger. On the few occasions that this had happened, Sherlock had always claimed that it was completely accidental. Most of the time, John believed him, but there was something about Sherlock that John knew attracted him to high-danger situations – the thrill of the chase, as he had once put it.

Then, like a gust of wind through the dancing dust in the light, their equilibrium had been thrown out of balance. John now needed to pay even more attention to try and balance their lives out again. One blow to the back of the head, that was all it took, and Sherlock had gone down like a ragdoll, unknowingly dragging their lives down with him. One blow to the back of the head.

John didn't know how many hours had passed since he returned to Baker Street, he hadn't even registered that he'd spent the entirety of that time focused on a table and dust. Only when his phone rang did he make an attempt to move. His hands fumbled with the buttons in his attempt to answer the call as quickly as possible. He didn't check the caller ID as he did so.

"Mycroft?"

"Is this Doctor Watson?" John frowned at the unfamiliar, female voice, and he could not help a sense of disappointment settle over him as he realized this was not Mycroft. He realized that the question warranted answering, and he finally connected the parts in his brain that allowed him to do so.

"Sorry, yes this is Doctor Watson." Odd. Nobody ever addressed him as Doctor Watson apart from Mycroft, and John had established that this call was not from Mycroft.

"Doctor Watson, my name is Jennie Lawson, and I'm a nurse at Charing Cross Hospital-"

"Is this about Sherlock?" John cut off Nurse Lawson, desperate to hear news about his missing friend.

"No, I'm sorry the name isn't familiar." Another wave of disappointment flooded over John. "I'm calling because we have your wife, Mary Watson here with us. She collapsed this morning at work and was bought here as soon as possible. We've been running tests and should get the results of them soon. We'll explain more thoroughly when you get here, I'm afraid she's still unconscious, but we thought it would be best to contact you and you can be here when she wakes up."

John could feel the colour drain from his face. It was a good thing he was already sitting down because he didn't think his legs would have been able to support him. He felt like the air had been rushed from his lungs and that his skin was simultaneously covered in fire and ice. He couldn't force air to move into his body. He was frozen, paralysed. First Sherlock, and now Mary - his beautiful, strong, perfect Mary.

"Doctor Watson?" John managed to force himself to breathe, and pushed the words past his lips, as if on autopilot. Everything seemed to be shutting down.

"Yes. I'll be right there." He hung up. His phone dropped to the floor. He held his head in his hands to stop it from spinning, the whole world was on a slant. He forced himself to gasp a few lungful's of air before attempting to stand. His legs were clearly stronger than he'd given them credit for, and he felt them move automatically towards the door, stooping first so he could retrieve his fallen phone. He put his coast back on and headed outside into the world again. Although this time, there was no thrill of the chase, he couldn't feel the blood pumping in his veins. John was numb, and it was very much just him, alone, against the rest of the world which seemed hell-bent on making John's life as difficult, and as full of pain as possible.


	12. Chapter 12

When John Watson was a doctor, he liked hospitals.

When John Watson was a patient, he tolerated hospitals.

When John Watson's best friend was lying unconscious in a hospital, he hated them.

When John Watson's wife was lying in a hospital bed hooked up to too many machines which required too many needles for his liking, John could quite happily burn every hospital in existence to the ground

How could so much go wrong so quickly? And what had John ever done to deserve any of this?

If Sherlock's situation had been pulling at the seams, what was going on now was like someone taking the sharpest pair of scissors and tearing through the fabric of John's life, until nothing was left except tiny, unsalvageable ribbons. Impossible to sew back together.

Mary's results had come back a few days after she'd been admitted, and the news was not good.

She was going to die.

Stage 4, malignant brain tumour. It was a secondary tumour, meaning the cancer had already spread far enough to affect her spine and nervous system. Inoperable, impossible to cure, but her life could be prolonged for a while.

John wanted to punch something, something breakable. He wanted to tear his hair out. He wanted to scream. He wanted to create a scene right in the middle of the hospital. He wanted to throw the chairs. He wanted to burn the piece of paper that said Mary – his Mary – was going to die.

At the same time, John wanted to hold Mary close. He wanted to tell her that everything was going to be alright ,and he wanted so desperately to believe it himself.

But he and Mary were both sensible people. They knew that it wasn't okay.

Jesus, how had he not seen the signs? He was supposed to be a bloody doctor for God's sake.

Apparently she's been showing the signs for months. She's experienced the severe headaches, which she'd just passed off as migraines due to stress bought on by work. The drowsiness, the nausea, the vomiting. Mary had even confessed that she'd been finding it harder and harder to concentrate on anything for lengthy periods of time, and that she'd had a few stumbles on her walks to and from work.

Shit.

It was all so clear now. They'd just been so caught up in what was going on elsewhere in their lives that they'd failed to recognise the symptoms for what they were.

John was sat on yet another extremely uncomfortable hospital chair, next to yet another figure on yet another hospital bed. He held one of Mary's hands between both of his own, being careful not to jostle any of the needles.

Mary was refusing to look at him, and this pained John more than anything. They'd already talked about it. Nothing needed repeating. She didn't want treatment. '_What's the point in prolonging the inevitable?_' she'd said.

_'So I don't have to lose you, not yet_' he had thought. Mary seemed to have been able to read his thoughts, because she'd just smiled weakly and brushed her thumb over his cheeks. Such a gentle action, and yet so full of love, affection, and all the words they had been unable to say to each other.

John kissed her hand, and finally Mary turned to face him. She'd looked so healthy the other day, not she looked drained. Maybe it was just John's mind trying to find something physically wrong with her before he could accept the truth of the situation. Honestly, John just thought the diagnosis had drained the life from them both. The spark that once used to dance behind Mary's eyes had disappeared. No smile graced her face, and her whole aura just seemed to flatten.

They held each other's gaze. They didn't need to say anything to know what the other was thinking.

_I'm scared, John._

_I know._

_Don't leave me._

_I won't._

_I need you._

_I'm here._

_I love you._

_I love you too._

It took several hours of silence before Mary drifted off to sleep. John was never asked to leave – he suspect's Mycroft's involvement.

Shit! He'd completely forgotten about Sherlock.

Satisfied that Mary wouldn't be waking up any time soon, John excused himself to chick his phone. There was only one thing. He had a new voicemail. John dialed and held the phone to his ear.

"Doctor Watson, my deepest condolences. I am truly sorry to learn about Mary. I just wanted to notify you that I have found my brother, and he's currently staying with me for a while. There is no reason to worry about him, he is more or less safe. You need to be with Mary. I have given instructions to the staff at the hospital not to remove you, so feel free to stay as long as you need to. Once again, my deepest condolences. Of all the people in the world, you two deserve it the least." End of message.

Mycroft had sounded so sincere, it made John's chest tighten. No, they did not deserve this. And yet here they were. John did not dwell on the ambiguity of Sherlock's safety. His priority now was Mary.

If he had not been spending so much time trying to help Sherlock when he obviously did not want to be helped, he might have picked up on this sooner.

He moved back into his chair by Mary's bed, and recaptured her hand between his own. He'd been so focused on Sherlock's memory that he'd neglected to realise that his wife was suffering form something far more serious. Sherlock could live through amnesia. Mary could not live through this. And John could not live without Mary. And John could not live with the fact that he'd failed her. After having vowed to protect her in front of an entire church full of their closest friend's and family, he had failed. He would never forgive himself for this, and he wouldn't blame Mary if she didn't either.

He pressed his lips against her fingers, as if this could make her better. He prayed for a miracle, for the doctors to come in and say they'd made a misdiagnosis and that Mary was fine, that he'd wake up and this whole ordeal

But it couldn't. John was going to lose the most important person in his life.

And he was not okay with that.


	13. Chapter 13

By the time Sherlock returned to Baker Street, John was already packing. He was leaving Baker Street to go and take care of Mary. She was refusing to stay in the hospital. She said the bed could be given to someone in more need than her. She wanted to spend her last few months at home. John would have rather died a thousand times over than see any harm come to Mary. But the universe did not care what John Watson would rather have.

3 months was what they were told. 3 months left together, to be a married couple. They would never be parents, or grandparents. There would be no school-runs, or trips to the beach. No school plays or concerts. No afternoons in the sun as the children played in the park. No family holidays, no bedtime stories. They would never grow old together. John would never brush the greying hairs from Mary's face as they enjoyed retirement. Their whole life together was being snatched away from them. 3 months.

He was so full of blind fury that the clothes were stuffed so forcefully, the seams of the bag were beginning to break. John didn't care. He needed to get home, and every minute he spent in Baker Street was a minute away from Mary.

He was so busy concentrating on pushing even more clothes into the already full bag, that John didn't hear the tell-tale creak of the 5th stair, which signalled someone's ascent to his room. Neither did he hear the door swing open, or the familiar footsteps enter his room.

"What are you doing?"

"Packing." John refused to turn and look at Sherlock. He wanted to leave Baker Street as soon as possible, and he didn't care if it seemed rude to do so.

"Why?"

"You're the bloody genius, you figure it out." John finished stuffing his clothes, and closed his bag. He stood there for a few moments, trying to breathe deeply and get control of his anger and frustration.

John's heart was breaking. His world was shattering. His life was falling apart. Every single cliché was happening. Yet more clichés for yet more disaster.

He turned to face Sherlock, hoisting his bag up to his shoulder as he did so.

"You're leaving."

"_Excellent_ deduction." John's voice could not have sounded more cutting and sarcastic even if he tried. It was possible, that he had just reached passed the level of sarcasm that Sherlock often used. "Bloody _brilliant_."

He made to move past Sherlock, but found that the taller man was blocking the doorway. Sherlock was eyeing John carefully, taking in every tiny detail about him, but clearly his brain was still not at full capacity because he did not realise that John was reaching his limits, and Sherlock was testing them.

"Move out of the way, Sherlock."

"Why? You'll leave, and you're supposed to be helping me." The tone of Sherlock's voice was accusing, as if he were trying to guilt John into staying. "I thought you're supposed to be my friend."

Something inside John snapped.

"Tell me this then, what the _fuck_ is the point in trying to help you if it's obvious you don't want my help?" How dare Sherlock imply that he was abandoning him. How _dare_ he. John knew he was shouting. He knew that Mrs Hudson, and possibly even the entire street could hear him, but he did not care in the slightest. He needed to have his say. He'd been biting his tounge ever since he moved back to 221B, and if he didn't have his say now, he would burst with frustration, anger and hurt. "Believe it or not, Sherlock Holmes is not my priority. I can't base my whole life around you when my wife-" John's voice caught in his throat at the mention of Mary. Wave of grief rolled through him, which was ridiculous because Mary was still alive, for now at least.

"Oh, this is about Mary's tumour." Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he obviously connected two points in his brain.

"_Two_ in a row. Wow, someone's _extremely_ clever tonight." Sherlock's expression turned stony. Even when he knew who John was, he did not like being mocked by him. "Tell me, Sherlock, how on _Earth_ did you figure that out? What is the coffee stains on my sleeves from the type of coffee you can only get in the hospital? Can you see the lack of sleep I've been getting recently, and the creases on my shirt that show I have been sleeping in the chair beside a hospital bed that my wife occupies?" John's eyes flashed, and Sherlock took the smallest step backwards. He knew that John was not one to be messed with today.

"No. Mycroft told me when I was staying with him." Sherlock's voice was calm, collected. But John saw a panicked shadow flash across his face. "Huh, some genius you are," John snarled. "Now,_ move_."

"But what about taking care of me John? You made a promise."

"I don't _fucking_ care, Sherlock!"

"You showed how much you cared about me when you abandoned your _mundane_ married lifestyle to come and take care of me in some vain attempt at helping me regain my memory-"

"I did not abandon her! How _dare_ you even imply that I abandoned my marriage!"

"John, what is the point in denying it? I'm obviously the most important thing in your life, or at least more so than Mary, otherwise you wouldn't-"

Sherlock's words were cut short by John's fist, which had connected with his jaw. There was a satisfying sound of impact as fist met face. Sherlock's hands flew to his face, and he doubled over, trying to shield the rest of himself from John. John returned his fists to his side and stood there, just watching as Sherlock tended to his injured face. John's whole body was trembling with the surge of adrenaline that had just rushed through him. He swallowed a few times before he spoke, and when he finally did, his voice was barely more than a whisper.

"There is nothing more important to me than Mary. Did you hear me? Absolutely _nothing_." His voice sounded disconnected, as if it didn't belong to John at all. Sherlock had slowly returned to his full height, but the air of superiority had gone, which – if possible – made him look small, scared. John swallowed a few more times as he tried to gain control of his wavering voice before he continued. "Especially," his voice was stronger now, and he was looking Sherlock straight in the eye as he addressed him, "an unfeeling, heartless machine. You're not my best friend. You're not even a shadow of him. My best friend was taken from me by a single blow to the back of the head." John turned his head towards the floor so Sherlock wouldn't see the gradual build up of tears in his eyes. Now was not the time for crying. He had done enough of that in the past few weeks to last him a lifetime. "And now, my wife is being taken away from me too. And taking care of her is a lot more important to me right now than you. You are a lost cause, Sherlock."

And without waiting to hear Sherlock's reply, John stepped around him and exited out of his room. He slammed the door behind him, shutting Sherlock in John's room, but made no move towards the stairs that would lead him out of 221B. The look on Sherlock's face – for John had caught a glimpse of it before he left the room – had looked hurt, betrayed. John had never seen him look like that before, like someone had stuck a knife straight through his heart and twisted it for good measure. He had trusted John. The guilt began to claw at his insides. John regretted his words to Sherlock, and he wanted desperately to take them back, but his own pride forced him towards the stairs, and he made his way out of the flat. As he said, there were more important things to do.

Each step felt like a step towards a death sentence.


	14. Chapter 14

It was three weeks before John saw Sherlock again. It wasn't for the normal, predictable reasons of John leaving something at the flat or just accidentally bumping into each other on a day out. No. This meeting was quite out of the ordinary.

People had always remarked on what a heartless man Sherlock was, John himself had said so before he stormed out of Baker Street. He'd never shown that he'd cared for anyone other than himself, and occasionally John. He was always amazed that John could regard so many people in such a high favour when it seemed that Sherlock would not, or could not.

They were all wrong. Sherlock had a rather large heart, but when you grow up in the Holmes family, sentiment is frowned upon, caring is not an advantage, and love is simply a chemical defect found in the losing side. Sherlock had always been on the losing side, and he had always been capable of love. He was cautious. He'd never expose his heart unless he trusted the recipient completely. Growing up in the Holmes family meant that he'd learned to trust very few people, and hence he never showed any interest in those around him.

So, it was completely out of character when Sherlock turned up at John and Mary's flat 3 weeks after John had left.

John and Mary had been watching a film, curled up together on the sofa, just enjoying each other's company. Mary had picked out a soppy romantic-comedy, the kind that made John cringe from the sheer awfulness but Mary seemed to enjoy. For John, nothing could beat a classic Bond film, but it was not about what John wanted. If Mary wanted to watch a ridiculous rom-com full of fluffiness and flimsy plot-lines, John wasn't going to object. There had been a knock at the door. John got up from the sofa to answer it. He had been answering the door, the phone, Mary's phone, their emails, everything since they got back from the hospital. Sherlock had been standing there in all his glory, scarf, coat, collar, even the gloves. Both men froze.

They'd stood there, neither moving. They must have been there, in silence for a while, because John heard movement from behind him. He tore his gaze away from Sherlock's to see Mary making her way down the hallway.

3 weeks had been hell on her. She looked so tired and gaunt. She hadn't been eating too wee, and whatever she did manage to eat was small, hardly anything. Her cheekbones we quickly becoming more prominent than Sherlock's.

She looked questioningly at John, silently asking if anything was wrong. Clearly, John's face was shocked or completely blank, because she moved around her husband to greet whoever was at the door. As soon as her eyes landed on that tall mass that was the world's only consulting detective, something in her face lit up.

"Sherlock." Her smile was genuine, and in fact, John realized that it was the first real smile he'd seen in the past few weeks. She reached her arms towards Sherlock, who took the hint and leaned down to meet her. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and Sherlock tentatively moved his around her waist. As they pulled apart from each other, John noticed that Mary was still smiling.

"My brother gave me your address."

"Of course." As she turned back to look at John, he felt himself mirroring that smile. Mary gestured towards the living room with a wave of her hand. Sherlock moved forwards, into the flat, and he followed Mary and John down the hallway. Mary turned her head to look at him.

"So, stranger, where have you been hiding?"

As they entered the living room, John and Mary both resumed their positions on the sofa, John sitting stiffly in an upright position, Mary cuddled up next to him, legs tucked up beside her and her head resting on John's shoulders. Sherlock occupied the chair opposite them. A large space was left between them, too large for John's liking. He would have liked nothing better than to get up and push Sherlock's chair as close to the sofa as it could get. That's how is had always been, and how it was supposed to be.

John hadn't told Mary about the last time he saw Sherlock. In all honesty, he was ashamed of himself. He knew he had a temper, and that it could get quite nasty sometimes, but what he said to Sherlock was just cruel. He didn't want Mary to think badly of him – not when their time was so limited. It made sitting in the same room as him increasingly awkward.

"My apologies for not visiting sooner Mrs Watson, it was fully my intention to visit as soon as I heard the awful news, and I'm deeply sorry. However, I wasn't sure of whether or not I'd be welcome." He was polite as ever. Git. How was John supposed to stay mad at him now? John could feel Sherlock's gaze on him, and when he looked up at Sherlock, John caught a flash of blue-green. But John blinked, and Sherlock had turned his attentions to Mary.

"Sherlock, why on earth would you think that. And I've told you, please, call me Mary." She smiled fondly at him. But upon seeing the faces of John and Sherlock, her face dropped as she turned from one to the other.

"What happened?" She waited for a response.

"Uh," John tried clearing his throat, which had become oddly tight. "We might have had an argument."

"It's hardly an argument if it's one-sided, John," scoffed Sherlock.

"Okay." John took a deep breath, trying not to let Sherlock get to him again. "I may have lost my temper a little the last time I was at the flat."

"John," Mary began, "when you say you lost your temper, what exactly do you mean?" She was pinching the bridge of her nose, eyes closed, clearly trying to keep calm herself.

"I might have shouted a bit-"

"A lot," interrupted Sherlock.

"Okay, a lot."

"He also punched me in the face."

"John!" Mary's eyes flew open and she glared at John, who recoiled as if he'd been burned. There was no worse feeling than letting Mary down, especially now. "How could you do that?"

"I just- I couldn't-" John began, but couldn't quite form whole sentences.

"Mrs Wat- Mary, if you will allow me to speak to you in private, I can explain everything. I do not wish to intrude on your home life for long, I know that John wants to spend every minute he can with you. But if I could just borrow you for only a few minutes, I would be extremely grateful." Mary looked at Sherlock, and an understanding seemed to flow through them. John watched Sherlock carefully. What on Earth could he possibly want Mary for? He turned to look at Mary, waiting for her reply.

"Of course, Sherlock. John, could you give us a few minutes? Pop the kettle on, maybe? I'm dying for a cup of tea!" She laughed dryly as she realised the wording or her request. John kissed her forehead, and Mary grasped his hand as he got up off of the sofa and moved into the kitchen.

He filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, then removed three mugs from the cupboard and placed them on the counter before him. Sherlock had his own mug here, for whenever he felt like he wanted to visit, which had been often. It had an intricate pattern in black and white, similar to the wallpaper at 221B – it was like having a part of his old life here in his new one, with Mary. Mary's mug was red – her favourite colour – with white polka dots, and John's was covered in blue and white stripes. They even had a pot of Sherlock's favourite tea-bags next to the regular ones that John and Mary used. Sherlock was just an irremovable part of their lives. These past few weeks without him had been so strange. There had been no texts, no calls, nothing. Which is why John was very suspicious of Sherlock appearing on their doorstep out of the blue, and requesting a private conversation with Mary.

If Mary wanted to talk to Sherlock, John wasn't going to stop her. Nothing could stop Mary getting what she wanted. Nothing. John had learned this when they were planning the wedding. So many petty arguments between the three of them about the flowers, the seating arrangements, the guest list. Mary always won, even if she was arguing with Sherlock. She was a force to be reckoned with, even now, despite their situation. John chuckled at the fond memories.

Maybe one day, he would go back to Sherlock and try to help him again. It seemed unfair that he had to miss out on these things. John had his doubts that he'd be let back into Sherlock's life after what he said. He was partially responsible for the rift that had been forced between him and his best friend – okay, almost entirely responsible.

His priorities were conflicted between the tow people in the other room. He loved both of them very dearly, in different ways. They'd both unknowingly saved his life. It was unfortunate that in one case, he couldn't return the favour.

As he was thinking, the kettle began to whistle. He filled the three mugs with hot water and set about making the tea.

When he took the tea into the living room, Sherlock had migrate from the chair to the sofa, sitting with his legs crossed, facing Mary, who also had her legs crossed. They looked like young teenage girls on a sleepover, and John had to laugh. They both looked up at him, and smiled. John was more surprised to see Sherlock smiling at him. It was if all had been forgiven between them, which was ridiculous because John hadn't even apologised yet.

He set the mugs on the coffee table and straightened up. Sherlock and Mary both reached for theirs immediately. Without thinking about it, Sherlock picked up his own mug, leaving John's behind on the table. John felt his eyes widen. He stared at Mary, who stared at him in return, and then they both turned to stare at Sherlock, who was drinking tea like it was the elixir of life.

"What?" He asked when he noticed their stares.

"That's your mug. You use it every time you visit us here. No-one else uses it. You had three mugs to choose from, and you immediately chose the one that belonged to you." John's voice was shaking slightly as he explained. Is it possible that despite the disaster surrounding him, Sherlock's mind was still trying to break free from the fog?

Sherlock frowned down at the mug, concentrating very hard on the pattern.

"Mine? Why?" It wasn't a question he was asking them, he was asking himself. He replaced the mug on the coffee table and stood up off of the sofa in one swift movement."I have to go now, I'm sorry." He bent down and planted a quick kiss on Mary's cheek. "Thank you, Mary."

"My pleasure, Sherlock." She smiled up at him, but made no movement to get up, leaving John to dutifully show Sherlock out of the flat.

As they reached the door, John felt the guilt rise up again, and he had to say something.

"Look, Sherlock, about what happened. I'm really sorry. I don't really know-"

"There's no need to apologise to me, John. I'm sorry too. I probably said some things I shouldn't have."

"Yeah you probably did." Both men laughed lightly. "Thank you for coming. It meant a lot to both of us that you still came despite… you know."

"You two, asides form Mrs Hudson and maybe Mycroft, are the only two people to have shown me any kindness or willingness to help me, despite the fact that I still have no recollection of who you are to me. Forgive the very overused and slightly clichéd saying, but you were there for me in a time of need," Sherlock cringed at his own use of words, it truly sounded like something out of that dreadful film he'd just been watching, "it seemed only fair I return the favour."

"It's not a favour, Sherlock, I wanted to." They held each others gaze after John said this, letting the words drift between them, and John felt the rift that separated them close slightly. Sherlock held out his hand, and John took it without a moments hesitation.

"All the best, John Watson."

"You too, Sherlock. Please, come and visit us again, any time. Just give us a bit more warning next time, okay?" A smirk appeared at the corner of Sherlock's mouth.

"Of course."

He released John's hand, and exited the flat, leaving John to watch the edge of his coat whip around the corner from the open door. John closed it and returned to Mary. He wanted to ask what Mary had spoken about with Sherlock, but when he moved into the living room, he fond Mary curled up on the sofa, fast asleep.

John smiled as he watched her, before picking up the three mugs, all still half full, and moving them back into the kitchen.

Questions could wait.


End file.
